End of an Era
by Dark Lord Duckie
Summary: The nigh oft forgotten stories of the dozen victims of Pettigrew's nine fingered continued journey to the sixth level of hell.


Charing Cross Road, a brightly lit though mist-shrouded hustle and bustle of tram and car alike, trundle and tire; they ferry folk of all ages and backgrounds across the business district, to their required destinations. Hallows Eve had ended for another year, and parents once again breathed a sigh of relief that only a smatter of interest in the Trick or Treat notion that had been brought over from the colonies managed to filter into their neighbourhoods. The orange and black had already begun to fade from the storefront windows, replaced by the red and green of yuletide as it began its steady approach. Even if the air wasn't quite filled with snow and cheer enough for a jolly old fat man in a red suit to come and crash land on houses. Regardless of his agenda to stuff food in his mouth, and knick-knacks under pine trees with nary a pricked hand to complain about.  
It was into this free spirited atmosphere that a pair of strangely dressed individuals found purchase along the cobblestones, the former a squat man with a squashed face and quivered lip, scampered ahead of a fearsome visage, a man of red-rimmed eyes, flecked from tears and pain, thundered along the roadside as he gained step by step on the man who did his best to avoid him.  
Jarome kicked out his feet, and stretched as he worked out the kinks in his back and side. Another day, another dawn, another cold night squirreled in an alleyway behind dustbins and garbage. He shook his head as he took in the scenery; how far had he fallen? Memories assaulted his mind as he slowly clambered to his feet, and edged towards the dumpster of a restaurant closer to the mouth of the alleyway. He mentally checked over his meagre possessions, to find he'd been robbed in the night yet again. What little money he'd made, pilfered. His small amount of food bought the day before, gone. He sighed; at least he was still alive. At least they hadn't taken the small length of cherry wood strapped to his arm. His last line of defence, and longer than this, he would likely end up either in an attempt to take his own, or with the removal of his morals, perhaps crime, at the point of his wand.  
Jarome was not a muggle, though he lived amongst the filth of them, he had been born of them, but was cast out as demonic and a Satan worshipper, for how could he possibly have gained magical ability without selling his soul to the underworld? He shook his head briefly, before he rubbed his neck sourly. Crick in the neck for sleeping in such a weird position, yet again. His joint problems would worsen before they got better. If they ever got better, that was. It wasn't always like this, he had worked hard to get where he had been. He had finished school at Hogwarts; he had worked to pay off his debt, as a Hufflepuff should have done. For a time after Hogwarts, he had retained his job, his meagre wage gained him a small room in a house with many others in the same position as he was, food was of poor quality, but nutritious enough.  
Until one day, before the sun rose, on his way to work, at the bookstore which was run by this kindly fellow, Mr Tindle, (who was occasionally sick at least once a month) Jarome had stopped to bind his shoes back together with Spell-o-tape for the fourth time that week, as Reparo hadn't affected them in months, he couldn't apparate as things like that required money for exams. He wasn't able to save up and still pay for essentials. Besides, physical exercise kept him fit and healthy, which for some reason was frowned upon by the local aristocracy.  
This small delay had left him out in the cold when his well-known Mudblood safe house was destroyed along with everyone who was inside, by the Death Eaters, enforcers of the blood supremacy headed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Jarome had continued on his way, oblivious to his sudden loss of possessions, friends, and home, once again. A tendril of black smoke had risen behind him, unheeded, and swirled into the skull and snake effigy high above the small town, combined with other areas in the town which glowed as embers faintly burnt out. By the time Jarome had arrived at the bookstore, he had felt the tension in the town rise, not to mention the sound of wails that sliced through the darkness, the glow that shone out just before dawn that came from no solar star. His feet dragged as he came closer to the sole source of his income, his mind overflowed with worried thoughts. Was his employer okay? Was the shop still intact? Was his job still secure? Ifs, ands, ors, and buts swept through his consciousness as he crested the hill, his eyes affixed on the scene ahead of him as the full moon, though it had started to sink below the horizon, bathed the street in light.  
A figure, staked to the wall, no… crucified with silver shards, through hands and feet, knees and elbows, blood smeared across the walls and pooled below on the pavement, over the door to the bookstore. Jarome sprinted down the road, without thought for appearances or the blisters, as they ripped apart, garnered from his poor footwear. Smoke stung at his eyes and filled his mouth with soot, tears fell freely as he reached out to pull the silver barbs from the poor victim and cast them aside. The figure fell forwards into his arms, and knocked them both to the blood splattered street. Blood slicked hair matted itself to his face, his eyes stung with the invasion of haemoglobin. In his attempt to both lift who he strongly suspected to be Mr. Tindle, and also to wipe his eyes clear, his grip slackened, the body sloughed sideways as the jaw caught briefly on his shoulder and then tore free.  
As Jarome sat back on his heels, his mind and stomach changed positions, eternally flipped over, as his shoulder emitted a dull yet continuous throb of pain that eked its way through his body. His eyes swept across the scene, with an absent acknowledgement of his workplace in ruins, as the bookstore groaned and caved in on itself. A plume of smoke billowed into the sky and shadowed the street, the light from the moon dissipated by the smouldered remnants of the once prosperous town. An unearthly groan brought Jarome's attention back to the unfortunate soul he had pulled down from the crucifix effigy; he brushed back the shaggy hair to get a better look at the figure's features when an old Defence Against the Dark Arts class sprang to mind, as he stared in horror.  
This was no man. Well, it was, every month but for the … full moon. Jarome flung himself backwards onto the cobblestones and slipped in the soot and blood that caked the ground around him. He reached for his wand strapped to his arm when pain flooded his senses, and he finally realised the blood mixed on the ground wasn't just the wolf's, but his own. His eyes trailed up his arm to the bite mark on his shoulder.

With a shudder, Jarome fell to his knees as the tacit reminder of his internal professor, from days gone by, informed him that he was infected with the lycanthropy virus, and his already meagre existence was about to get a hundred times more difficult.

Jarome found himself, eyes narrowed, hand poised in the process of a salvaged meal from the dumpster; as his mind relinquished its hold on his memories. He spat viciously, with scant disregard to his already parched throat, as he recalled how he had returned home to the destroyed safe house, and then after a month of a desperate search for work or shelter, had barely managed to escape with his life from the town as he had turned into that monster. Tindle had survived, but he had no idea what had become of him after the fact. He was a little preoccupied with his own problems. He hadn't asked for this. He hadn't gone out of his way to be bitten. His eyes stung, it could have been from the aroma of months of disintegrated and blackened food caked to the insides of the waste disposal container; or it could have been from memories as they tore apart what little hold on his dignity he had left.  
With a sigh and a quick glance about the area, Jarome pulled his cherry wand from his sleeve and pointed it into his mouth. Intrusive thoughts shoved aside roughly, he cast a quick Aguamenti spell into his mouth, ever mindful of the fresh water focus. It wouldn't do it spend the next few minutes with hallucinations or a grab at attention from the passers-by on the Road. As it was that the Leaky Cauldron was down the road a bit, mostly the Ministry ignored this stretch of street in terms of magical use. The Trace wouldn't pick up a graduate of Hogwarts, anyway. With a scowl, Jarome summoned boxes of discarded take-away from the darkened contents he had pawed through not mere moments ago. Once upon a time, he may have wrinkled his nose at this; now it was a feast fit for a … well, cast out mudblood half-breed.  
Best to have no ideas above his station, Jarome conjured a deck of cards and set about his preparations for another day of muggle magic tricks to garner some small manner of money, he slid down the side of the dumpster, as he shuffled the cards, and holstered his wand. Perhaps tonight he could spend some time in a hostel, behind a locked door and all, with maybe a bit of money aside to make a nice hot soup as well. The nights were getting colder, winter was almost upon London and he had no idea how he would survive without judicious use of warmth charms.  
He chanced a glance at the Road, and spotted two figures as they dashed down the causeway, in a heated argument. Jarome rocketed to his feet, he recognised the two men, and recalled that they had been a part of a tight knit group of Gryffindors, only two years ahead of him. He hadn't been fast friends with them, but everyone but the Slytherins got along and had talked at one point or another. But maybe they could point him in the right direction to put his life back together and get back on his own two feet. He stepped out from the alleyway, and blinked as the sunlight splayed across his face, after images danced in his vision for several moments, he hoped it would pass before they did.  
Pettigrew wheeled around before they drew level with Jarome's alleyway. His wand drawn behind his back as he shouted down Black, something about a betrayal but that couldn't be right; Black, who had skidded to a stop, wand pointed between Pettigrew's eyes. Whatever he said was drowned out by the lorries and cars as the sped by. Jarome raised a hand and waved to Black, as he recognised the wand movement that Pettigrew had almost completed, far too late, aimed at a point several feet behind him, but in front of Jarome.

As the curse hit the pavement at the feet of a passer-by, the last thing through Jarome's mind was, probably, his own two feet.


End file.
